Forgetfulness
by Relala
Summary: Remembering. Just plain old remembering. To him, it had seemed the greatest thing in the world. •AU•


**DISCLAIMER:** _Criminal Minds, its publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended_.

* * *

**TITLE:** Forgetfulness

**AUTHOR: **Relala

**BETA(s): lrigD** and **lady of scarlet**

**FANDOM STATUS:** Fanon

**SPOILERS:** Um, **Season Two - Episode 15:** **Revelations **if you consider those spoilers.

**WARNING:** OOC / AU

* * *

The young man isn't very intelligent.

He isn't able to comprehend the basics of five apples on the table plus six more apples on the table making eleven apples on the table in total. He doesn't understand that Poetic License means "liberties with the normal rules of fact, style, or grammar taken by a writer or speaker in order to achieve a particular effect" and he doesn't realize that Quantum Theory is a "theory describing the behavior and interactions of elementary particles or energy states based on the assumptions that energy is subdivided into discrete amounts and that matter possesses wave properties."

The young man does not know any of that information ...yet all the same, he isn't used to the confusion of not understanding. There's a nagging in the back of his mind, a tiny thought which flutters around like a butterfly inside his head, that he should know this stuff. A brain wave that tells him if he just thinks a little bit harder he'll **_remember_**.

But he doesn't understand that either, because he hasn't _**remembered**_ much of anything since the accident with Tobias Hankel. In fact, sometimes the young man cannot even **_remember_** who he is. He's just the reflected image in the fogged up mirror after warm showers. Just a sandy-haired man staring out at himself and wondering: _Is this me?_

He is just a set of hazel-coloured eyes gazing into their own soul and ending up in confusion, wet lips moving over and over again to form the unanswerable question: _Who am I?_

* * *

The young man always has something to drink within his sinewy hands: coffee, a fresh glass of water, a can of Sprite, chilled wine, tea, bottles of juice and occasionally the odd beer. Yet he isn't sure, however, if this is because he's actually thirsty or if it's because he needs something to do.

A lot of people don't think that drinking a glass of water provides any mental stimulation but the young man knows otherwise. The taste of the liquid can always be speculated upon, the refreshing cool which slides down one's throat concentrated upon, the smell of things very ensnaring and thought provoking. Even water, he learns, has a smell and although you may use just one brand of coffee the taste can have variations depending on how many sugars and how much cream you use.

Regardless of the _who's_, _what's, when's, where's _and _why's _the young man is always drinking something. Even at two o'clock in the morning, after waking up suddenly from a nightmare, his first reaction is to grab the empty cup off the nightstand and wander to the bathroom to turn on the faucet. It spits out freezing water and he fills the translucent glass until it trembles, the glorious liquid flowing over the sides in droplets.

That's how he begins to view his mind. A tumbling glass full of so much knowledge that it cannot be contained any longer, the knowledge not dribbling over the sides but spilling in waterfall-sized fountains.

There's nothing he can do about it ...and that alone makes him shiver when he turns out the bedroom lights. At least, he thinks, he has the advantage of knowing which monster lurks inside his closet but sometimes he wonders if he'd be happier not knowing its face. After all, he cannot _**remember **_anything no matter how hard he tries.

He is unable to _**remember **_and what use is it that he knows that he cannot do so? It's a ridiculous thought which rolls around in his head: _I should know this. _But he does not.

Sometimes he wonders if it isn't the basic knowledge of things which will tear him apart one day, like a simple note written upon a thin sheet of paper.

* * *

There's a group of people which stop by from time to time to check up on the young man in his dingy apartment, breezing into the tiny space with all the energy of a tornado and leaving only cleanliness behind them when they go. Their visits aren't scheduled nor are they quite irregular, he knows, it's just that he cannot clearly **_remember_** on what days they will arrive. Half the time he doesn't even know the days of the week anyway, so that information was never any good in the first place.

They _must _have their own lives.

Yet somehow they always magically reappear in his.

Mostly it's the soft-faced man who shows up outside his doorway, the peephole distorting his beautiful features to create the illusion of wide heads and skinny hips. But, as aforementioned, it's only an illusion and once he gets inside the apartment the lamplight will show the same old coffee-coloured skin and indulgent half-grins.

The young man never _**remembers **_the man's name but the gestures and voice are something he recalls precisely. He doesn't have any memory of them - everything about his old life has been erased like unwanted pencil marks - but there's a comforting familiarity between the coffee-skinned fellow and himself which goes beyond two-bit recollections. Within the presence of this man the rest of the world fades out like a black and white Polaroid picture and it becomes only the two of them which exist in the current moment, their actions and thoughts painted in marvellous colours.

Unconditional love, the young man realizes, is what he has with this person.

He doesn't feel any pride at **remembering** the proper terminology suchlike he usually would if he were with anyone else because unconditional love doesn't require you to use correct words and phrases or have unbelievable genius. Its nature is to be simple and sweet.

"Morgan," says the man, jabbing a finger into his own chest.

"Morgan."

"Spencer," says the man, tapping him lightly over the heart.

"Spencer?"

* * *

The young man is more than horridly forgetful. In his house the laundry never gets done unless the maid pops by, the dishes go unwashed in the sink and the meals are delivered straight to his doorstep because he forgets to turn off the stove from time to time. The odd thing is that _sometimes _the people who take care of him are just as forgetful as he is.

On rare occasions they ask him questions and expect the answers, which forces him to admit that he doesn't know. The words are choked, making his face burn with shame. Even more uncommon, however, is when they forget to stock his cupboards with his much needed coffee. Its only occurred a few times but it never ceases to amaze him when it happens.

He fishes around in the numerous cupboards for his coffee can, peels back the lid, and finds nothing but a hint of his paradise elixir. He then proceeds to stare into the silver-sheeted abyss as if expecting it to refill itself.

Another question without an answer: _Where might one find coffee if not in a can? _

* * *

It's not exactly Profiling.

The young man has lost way too much of _Spencer's _brain to know how to do such an amazing act of witchcraft. What this young man does could be considered much more like reading books, something which he still enjoys even if he no longer reads the confusing novels which line his bookshelves from his previous life.

He hesitantly orders a double-double coffee and heads silently to the farthest corner of the café, distancing himself from the disorderly commotion, yet in the perfect position to watch it contently. Even if he doesn't _**remember **_it, he's always been a people watcher.

Much in the same way that some folks liked to watch birds, _Spencer _had liked to categorize humans. The soft-faced man told him so and the young man thinks that coffee and people watching are the only things he will ever have in common with the fabled _Spencer_. He may not be good at _**remembering **_the answers to complex questions or knowing the days of the week off by heart but at least he is decently talented in understanding others expressions. It's like reading a book except for the fact that the words lay on the people's faces.

Somehow it comforts him immensely that he has this talent. He sips his coffee and goes unnoticed by the customers who breeze past him as if he were nothing more than dust, a pale half shadow of the man he used to be.

He is used to being treated like such and merely ignores their cold attitudes, gazing at their tired eyes and sluggish gestures. The teenage girl in the corner is pushing herself farther and farther into the seat, eyes weary and lips trembling slightly, hood half pulled over her knotted brown hair. The man in the black suit fiddles with his white tie as if it's choking him, flipping his wrist over and checking his watch every three seconds.

The young man isn't able to Profile them, of course, but he can read everyone in this café in a heartbeat. Deep down, he knows, they're all just as confused as he is.

* * *

Throughout all this time the young man had imagined _**remembering **_in large, bolded, letters inside his head. _**Remembering** _everything which he knew he had forgotten. _**Remembering** _the coffee-skinned man's name and knowing the days of the week. _**Remembering**. _Just plain old _**remembering**_**.** To him, it had seemed the greatest thing in the world. A gift which everyone else possessed but from which he had been left out. Like an orphan watching normal kids from a window, he had been able to see their happiness but not touch it.

Now, however, he wasn't so sure that he wanted it.

The big bolded word had become nothing more than normal letters. **_Remembering_** ...was it really so great? He didn't feel like the type of person _Spencer _was, anymore. He didn't care for Mathematics nor read John Keats by the firelight. The lights of Las Vegas had become an unseen mystery and the term _SSA _meant absolutely nothing to him. Sure, he may have been a little more forgetful than the average person was but in the end they were all just as confused and weary as he was, weren't they?

Normal, he thinks, is what he has become. Perfectly normal. Again, he may not **_remember_** his other life, but something in him knows he has had this thought before. Like the smooth gestures of the soft-eyed man, everything about this idea is very familiar. It had not been **_remembering_** which had stood out in bolded letters to Spencer but rather the term _**normal**_**.** In the deepest parts of his mind the genius had always longed to be just that.

The young man doesn't **_remember_** the desire to be normal but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he is through with trying to be what other people wish he was.

The young man is merely a young man, as confused and as dysfunctional as any other human being. Everyone out there forgets something about themselves to create a new piece of themselves. They let go of pieces like fears and addictions and become someone new.

He doesn't know who _Spencer _is because he has let go of his memory, let go of the identity which was holding him back. Perhaps it isn't **_remembering_** or being normal which should be bolded inside his mind but rather _**forgetfulness. **_

After all, **_remembering_** his other life wasn't getting him anywhere.

Maybe that meant that it was time to make a new one.

THE END


End file.
